Nay, We Must Think Men Are Not

I, Measuring His Affections By My Own, Which Then Most Sought Where Most Might Not Be Found, Being One Too Many By My Weary Self, Pursued My Humor Not Pursuing His, And Gladly Shunned Who Gladly Fled From Me.

To Be Direct And Honest Is Not Safe.

I Am Not Mad; I Would To Heaven I Were! For Then, 'tis Like I Should Forget Myself; O, If I Could, What Grief Should I Forget!

There Is Thy Gold, Worse Poison To Men's Souls, Doing More Murder In This Loathsome World, Than These Poor Compounds That Thou Mayst Not Sell.

Kiss Me, Kate, We Shall Be Married O'sunday